A Moment of Bliss to Last a Lifetime
by Maze-zen
Summary: Christine has chosen to drink a drugged laced glass of wine to sleep through her wedding night. This is what happened while she was asleep. A missing scene from Mllebree's The Living Wife.


This phic explores what happened on their wedding night in The Living Wife by Mllebree: s/12802751/1/The-Living-Wife

This can be read separately, but I recommend it to every fan of Leroux's Phantom of the Opera - it's amazing!

The content in this story is very explicit and by today's standards seen as noncon. However, in the 19th century this wasn't the case. Christine is well aware of her situation and the action she chose. But if you don't like extreme dubcon or noncon, don't read this!

* * *

The wine and the drug therein took their effect quickly, despite Christine's resistance. She tried to speak, but the only thing she seemed to be able to utter was his name; a prayer, almost, on her lips - never had his name sounded so beautiful, and for the first time he wished that he had been given a name by birth, so that he could hear it said by her.

He stroked her cheek with his thumb, trying to comfort her so she would stop resisting. He knew she didn't like the feeling of losing control - not many did - but she had chosen this, to spare herself the experience of her wedding night. "It's for the best," he whispered, wishing that the words weren't true. He knew that, had she chosen to stay awake and had objected to his advantages, he wouldn't have been able to go through with it. He could not force her. But he wanted his wedding night with his living wife and if she rejected this simple consummation of their marriage, he would come to resent her.

She started to sag on the couch, her limbs growing heavy. He leaned forward from his place on his knees in front of her and kissed her forehead softly, thanking her for her sacrifice. She leaned into his kiss, slumping forward until he had to pull her into his embrace before they both fell to the floor.

She was completely unconscious now, oblivious to the night ahead of them.

He wrapped his arms tighter around her and rose from the floor, lifting her up with him. "Erik will take good care of you," he murmured into her temple as he carried her to her bedroom - the only room with a proper bed. He carefully laid her down on the sheets and removed her little boots from her feet.

Then he set about the task of taking off his own clothes; he undid his cravat, folded it neatly and left it on her nightstand, he unbuttoned his coat and shrugged it off, along with his waistcoat, and hung both items on the chair by her vanity. Finally, he pulled away his mask; it would allow his lips to access her skin as he'd dreamed of.

He'd never been so bare in front of her and it was jarring to say the least. He began undressing her, a difficult task for a man, but one he'd practiced one with mannequins before. He knew how to undo the small buttons on her top, the clasps and laces on the corset and each layer of skirt. Soon, he had rid her of all but her chemise, bloomers and stockings; she was practically naked in front of him.

With less hurry, he rolled down her stockings, feasting his thirsty eyes on each pale leg that revealed beneath the silk. He painstakingly unbuttoned each little button on the chemise, though he knew many women didn't bother to do it every time, before lifting her limp shape and dragging it over her head. It was bare skin he felt as he placed her gently back on the bed; his breath hitched and his heart almost stopped beating when he saw her naked bosom - hills of chalk white flesh on her otherwise flat torso with a wide areola on each of them. How he longed to bury himself by the foot of those hills, to worship them each day! But he had to continue.

Careful not to touch any of the flawless skin on her pale abdomen, he gripped the waistband of her bloomers and, sliding his fingers along the fabric as he lifted her momentarily off the bed, delicately peeled off her last garment, exposing her most precious place to his excited eyes.

But he didn't look just yet. Instead, he kept his gaze lowered, preparing for the moment he'd ached for all his adult life; finally, he would have what normal men had: a woman in his bed, allowing him to share his love for her in the most physically expressive of ways. It should matter to him that she'd chosen to be heavily sedated to endure this, but it was not of his concern presently. What he'd seen and heard in harems, bordellos and at the opera, most women just lay there while the men took their pleasure. The only difference in his night with Christine was that she wouldn't have to know the details of what had happened.

That's what he told himself.

He lifted his head and dragged his eyes over her little feet, up her bare ankles, past her knees, to the top of her soft, pale thighs and the patch of golden curls between them. Oh, what wonders lay beneath them!

His body slowly followed the path his eyes had taken, as he placed his hands on each thigh, just above the knee, and gently pushed her legs apart until there was room for his body to lie between them, allowing his face to be at level with her womanhood.

While he'd never been so near to a woman before, he was well educated on the matter. He knew which hidden treasures to find and how, in theory, to make a woman achieve an orgasm. However, he was quite certain that Christine wouldn't appreciate such an experience in her unconsciousness and he wasn't sure he had the patience for it anyway, his manhood already painfully aching in his trousers, but he would see to it that her body was as prepared for the intrusion as possible. He was also convinced, as he inhaled the scent of her core, musky and sweet, that he would enjoy this part well enough.

With gentle fingers he parted her outer folds and instantly felt overwhelmed by the loveliness he encountered there: a vision of pink flesh - reminiscent of her blushing cheeks, but much more intense - supple and moist, bidding him to touch. Despite his inclination to begin with the channel, he desperately wanted to fill, he knew that he had to make her slick to make it easier for him to enter and to spare her from too much pain in the morning. He had olive oil ready if necessary, but he preferred to do it as naturally as possible.

Perhaps, he would even be able to believe she wanted this.

He licked his left index finger, holding her folds open with the fingers of his right hand, and gently slid it over the exquisite little bud that sat like a crown on top of her inner folds. Instantly, a small quiver ran through Christine's body and he pulled back with wide eyes, unsure if she was awake. But her eyelids showed no sign of moving, her breathing still calm and slow. She was asleep as he should be with the dose, he'd provided her, but it seemed that her body wasn't as numb as he had expected.

For a moment he wondered whether he could go through with this when she could feel his actions. Was it cruel? No, no, not more cruel than if she was awake. He wasn't forcing himself on her without her permission; when she drank the wine, knowing well what would happen, she gave consent to his husbandly right, even if she was asleep.

He told himself this repeatedly as he neared her little bud again, now utterly sure that he should prepare her first; he wouldn't hurt her unnecessary.

Once more, he licked his finger and gently circled the small piece of flesh; Christine's body reacted once more, trembling slightly, and the bud hardened under his finger - an unexpected reaction that sent a spark of arousal to his already throbbing groin, making him hiss. He felt Christine's thigh muscles ripple under his hold, a small coon leaving her. He groaned in the back of his throat in response, unable to stop it.

He was trembling as well, breathing hard against her soft skin, as he put a little more pressure on the little pearl. He found himself kissing the surrounding skin, letting its warmth heat his cold lips. Christine's breath was deeper than before, but her limbs weren't moving and her eyelids were still. However, her inner lips were swelling, turning a darker shade of pink than before. Perhaps he could explore further now.

He let his index finger slide from her bud, down and inside the folds he'd so desperately wanted to feel.

She was even hotter here and wet as he reached her cunt with his finger. He moaned when his finger found its way inside of her, her slick inner muscles sucking his thin digit further inside of her. He added another finger, a tighter fit, but no less exquisite as it was embraced by her channel. Above him, Christine shifted slightly, a soft whine leaving her.

Erik was panting now, and if he wasn't careful, he wouldn't last long enough to consummate the marriage.

Reluctantly, he removed his fingers from her slick warmth and hurried to pull down his suspenders and unbutton his trousers, tugging them down quickly, followed by his drawers. His fingers - which had touched Christine's sacred flesh only moments ago - shook as he'd unbuttoned his shirt. In his fantasy, he was always bare as she was. They would feel each other's skin and she would welcome him, whispering her love for him as he entered her.

That would not come to pass, but this would be close enough. He would take what little she would give him and though she hadn't wanted to participate in this, she had married him.

When he'd finally divested himself of the last of his clothing, he lay down beside the angel on the bed. Oh, how magnificent she was, her marble skin glowing in the light of the fire, long, ample thighs spread and waiting for him to take his place between him. He was ready, hard and burning in his loins, but he wanted to take his time, striding for as much intimacy as possible given the situation.

He kissed her lips gently before moving down her jaw, his body settling over her by instinct. Despite their height difference, his hips naturally found hers; his engorged shaft finding its place at her womanhood. It was intoxicating to feel her lower curls against him - the slickness he'd drawn from her so near him. Her neck smelled of the rosewater she used in her bath and of music - so sweet music - and he sucked on it with what little lip he had.

No matter what would happen, Christine was his now: his living wife and not even the Vicomte could take that from him. Soon, he would claim her, joining them by flesh, so not even God can deny this marriage.

He rubbed himself on her body, enjoying the soft skin on his own wrinkled and dry form. Her breasts moved against his chest, making it hard for him to tear his gaze away from them. He took one full mound of flesh in his hand and kneaded it, watching enraptured how his stimulation affected it. The dusty pink nipple hardened slightly, taking on a darker color, and he tugged at it carefully. Christine's head moved to the side and he instantly pulled his hand back.

His pulse was faster than ever, both because of his arousal and because he feared that she would wake up. She shouldn't, there was no reason to think that she would wake for the next 12 hours, and yet, he couldn't help but worry.

However, another hand found her other breast and his mouth began to suckle at her clavicle where he'd once noticed a tiny birthmark that begged to be kissed. It was as sweet as he'd imagined. His hips were acting on their own, thrusting his erection against its softer counterpart, longing to find home. It was far too stimulating, along with the kisses he planted on his beloved and the feel of her gracious bosom. He hissed as he almost erupted on top of her, fighting a nearly impossible battle against his touch starved carcass.

Finally, he stopped ignoring his body screaming for release. When he'd gained enough hold of himself, he reached for his cock and lead it to her opening, still slick from his ministrations earlier. He didn't dare to desist anymore; his cock head entered her and he plunged forward, driving it all the way home.

_Thrust_

He moaned loudly when he was shelved completely inside her, grasping for breath as she embraced him from all sides with her warm, wet and rippled flesh. His cock swelled and he was about to reach his climax when he noticed the expression on his beloved face; she was grimacing, her brows furrowed, closed eyes straining and her lips tight. Despite his preparation, he'd hurt her. The realisation kept him from ejaculating, reminding him that this was no ordinary consummation.

But she was a virgin. Had she been awake, it might've been more painful, as well as traumatic for her. He was sparing her the knowledge of what had happened, while he was allowed this pleasure.

With this assurance, he started to move inside of her.

Her inner muscles suckled at his hard shaft when he pulled himself almost all the way out of her, then welcomed him back eagerly as he dove back in.

_Thrust_

He groaned unashamed as her hot cunt gripped at him, the path slicker than before. He could stay inside her forever, if his hips didn't insist on pulling him back out.

_Thrust_

His body knew the rhythm and he let his mind go blank, possibly for the first time in his life. He felt euphoric, alive, and dare he even say it? - accepted. Accepted as a human like everyone else, having a wife who gave her body to him in the most intimate of ways. Her face didn't carry a grimace anymore, only a serene look as she granted him this gift. He lowered his cursed face to her neck, burying his missing nose in the loose hair there.

_Thrust_

Pleasure ripped at every nerve end in his body, making him moan unabashingly as he took in her scent. He knew he was reaching his completion, no matter how much he held back. Overwhelmed by the intensity, he whispered jolted words of love into her ear as he withdrew from her.

_Thrust_

He buried his shaft deep inside of her one last time before spending himself, thrashing wildly as all-consuming pleasure tore through him. "Christine, Christine, Christine," he gasped, moaned and sobbed as his wife became a vessel for his desire, offering him a greater rapture than he'd ever imagined. His body shook all over and he carefully settled his weight upon her, spent of all ability to move at the moment.

Slowly, he found his faculties, his breath aligning with Christine's - slow and deep. He was still seated within her, but the flaccidness made him slip out little by little. He lifted his head to look at his lovely wife, for some reason imagining her greeting him with a kind smile, and was sorely reminded of her unconscious state as he was met by her blank, sleeping face.

His manhood slipped out of her, followed by a small mixture of fluids. He looked down to see the light pink puddle forming on the white lining between her legs, his own length dripping a little onto her thigh. He pushed himself away from her small shape, shocked by the evidence of what had transpired; his own seed had seeped out of her, pooling with the blood of her maidenhead - the one he'd shamelessly torn through.

He stumbled off the bed, disgusted by himself. What had he done? Not only had he forced the poor angel to marry him, a monster, but had even given her the ultimatum of being molested by him while awake or drugged - not much of a choice! His sweet angel now lay there - fallen - her golden hair a mess, her skin paler than usual, with legs spread wide and the evidence of what had occurred on the soiled sheets beneath her. He had to remove them,clean away all the proof of his sin.

It wouldn't undo what he'd done, but hopefully she wouldn't be reminded of it.

He covered Christine's sleeping form in a blanket, providing her with the modesty he should've let her have instead of peeling off her clothes. Then he dressed himself quickly before finding a washcloth to wash her with. He started between her legs, feeling ashamed as he washed away the remains of himself and her blood from her skin. But it wasn't enough; most of her still smelled of his rotten scent, so he found a new washcloth, dipped in rosewater, and washed as much of her as he could.

He dressed her in a fresh chemise and a modest nightgown, discarding the clothes she'd worn when he had undressed her. Perhaps she would forget all about the wine he gave her and think that she'd been so awfully tired that she'd simply gone to bed in a drowsy haze; that nothing had happened at all.

No. No, he remembered the blood. She would likely feel it.

His hands began to shake and he forced himself to calm down. He had to clean up this mess and save her from the trauma of facing the aftermath.

After he'd dressed her as one would dress a doll, he carefully lifted her from the bed into the sitting room where he laid her on the couch. Then he stripped her bed of all linens, washing them all meticulously in his private bathroom, (all the while trying not to think of Lady Macbeth's guilty words) and hanging them to dry there. He thanked himself for having another set of linens for her bed in the same white fabric with lace trimming, so she wouldn't suspect anything.

He placed her back in bed before covering her with a blanket and turning out all the oil lamps. He hesitated momentarily; he knew he should leave her be, spare her the horror of waking with him next to her. But he longed to lie with her and hold her, apologize for his actions and beg for forgiveness. Tell her how she was the most precious thing on earth and how he would move heaven and earth to give her everything she deserved.

He would let her go if that is what she wished. Despite how much it pained him, he would do it now. Maybe that would redeem him of the sins he'd committed against her today.

He sighed regretfully, suddenly wishing things could've been different between them, before walking out the door and closing it behind him.

He'd wanted a living wife, but he'd chosen to force the life out of her for a moment of bliss.


End file.
